Song For the Asking
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: One-shot.  Over the top romantic fluff.  It's business as usual at 221b Baker Street the morning after Sherlock and John's first romantic encounter.  Or is it?


**Title:** Song For the Asking

**Rating: **NC-17

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** A modicum of explicit sex.

**Word Count:** About 2,500

**Summary:** Over the top romantic fluff. It's business as usual at 221b Baker Street the morning after Sherlock and John's first romantic encounter. Or is it?

**Song For the Asking**

That morning it had been business as usual for Sherlock; he'd made sure of it. Off out at 4:30 AM, Sherlock had made his rounds, first checking to see whether any of his "irregulars" had caught sight of the arsonist responsible for burning down his client's warehouse, then stopping by the gymnasium for a rematch with the fencing club's reigning champion. Sherlock had lost, but only by a touch, a marked improvement from the last time they'd dueled. It was now 9:10 AM, time to return home so he could scan the internet for news of the day, both "headlines" and "back page oddities", from the familiar comfort of his couch. John had clinic at 10:00AM and so would be at home, bustling about as usual as he prepared for his day. Sherlock hoped John would offer to make him tea while he was fixing his own. There was no reason to think he wouldn't; for since moving in a month ago, every morning, without fail, John had made tea for them both.

As extraordinary as they had been, not even the events of the previous evening could alter Sherlock and John's well-worn routine. The fact that Sherlock had finally convinced John to give in, to admit, by his enthusiastic consent, that he craved Sherlock touch like he craved danger and air, would change nothing. John understood that Sherlock's work came first, and so their lives would continue largely as they always had. It simply didn't matter that John's kisses and caresses had turned Sherlock into a writhing, moaning mass of need. Nor was it important that the hot-soft flex of John's thighs around his waist as Sherlock pounded into him had Sherlock crying out John's name along with a shocking stream of obscenities and, even more embarrassing, flowery terms of endearment. The sun was up, Sherlock was once again his clear-eyed self, and equanimity had been restored. And so it always would be.

While climbing the stairs to their flat, Sherlock found himself smiling, thinking of John. How rare John was; companionable and attractive, independent and devoted. Who else could slot into Sherlock life so easily? The addition of physical intimacy to their existing relationship had been almost seemless; like a raindrop on a pond, it left barely a ripple.

John must have been running late. The kettle was cold and Sherlock could hear the shower running. Sherlock was just about to switch on his computer when he heard something unusual that made him stand stock still and listen. It was John's voice, faint and somewhat indistinct as it was muffled by the sound of the shower spray. But what had caught Sherlock by surprise was that John was singing.

Never before had Sherlock heard John sing. Not once. The sound was pleasant, John's usual appealing tenor but sweeter and throatier, like a lark in spring. He paused to listen appreciatively, then flipping open his laptop, he started scanning the usual sites for news. But after less than a half a minute, Sherlock found he was unable to focus. For some reason John's singing was distracting him. He walked to the bathroom door and leaned against it, ear pressed tightly against the wood. Something was wrong and Sherlock had to find out exactly what that was.

After listening for a minute, Sherlock had come up with several possible reasons why John's singing was putting him off. First, every so often John would sing a flat note. Well, not really sing. Apparently John didn't know all the words to this particular tune and so was humming most of it, so technically it was John's humming that was occasionally off key. Second, based on the simple construction, Sherlock could tell it was a popular song, not his favorite musical genre. John sometimes listened to a pop station when he was alone in his room performing monotonous tasks like folding laundry or tidying, but only when Sherlock wasn't around to spoil his enjoyment by mocking his taste in music. Third, because John wasn't singing all the lyrics, it was impossible to gage the depth of banality of this particular tune, and so Sherlock was robbed of the pleasure of criticizing it with the appropriate level of scorn. Fourth and most importantly, Sherlock did not know _why_ John was singing, and not knowing something about John got under Sherlock's skin like nothing else on Earth.

Sherlock knew there had to be a simple explanation, but, ironically, John's singing was so distracting that Sherlock couldn't hear himself think. In frustration Sherlock stepped back from the bathroom door and put his hands over his ears. Immediately, the answer came to him. And that answer was sex.

It was so obvious; Sherlock couldn't imagine why he hadn't thought of it immediately. John was singing because he had had sex the night before. It was likely that this was, in fact, John's habit. Sherlock hadn't known about it because John had always had his romantic liaisons elsewhere, probably because women he dated usually felt uncomfortable at Baker Street. (Whether the root cause was Sherlock's experiments or Sherlock himself, he had never been able to determine.)

Having solved the ridiculously trivial mystery, Sherlock should have been satisfied, but he wasn't. This was about John, and so of course Sherlock had to know everything. For instance, Sherlock needed to find out which song had John chosen to sing the morning after he'd been with Sherlock in _that way_. Sherlock well understood how people used music to communicate their inner most thoughts when words were too difficult to speak or were simply inadequate. Besides, based on his own experiences over the past month, Sherlock knew that the shower was a place where people's innermost desires, ones they sometimes kept hidden from themselves, would bubble up, unbidden, to the surface. He again pressed his ear against the door and listened, waiting with nervous trepidation for a glimpse into what John was thinking. Ah, finally some data; lyrics.

_I'm an alligator.  
>I'm a mama-papa coming for you.*<br>_

Sherlock smiled, then let out a low sigh of relief. What was wrong with him, thinking that a nonsensical pop song could give him some deep insight into John's private thoughts? And why was he eavesdropping on John singing in the shower like some nutter when, instead, he should be working his arsonist case? Sherlock was just about to make his way back to the couch and his laptop when John started singing again. Ignoring every last reasonable thought of the past minute, Sherlock rushed to retake his post at the door.

_Keep your electric eye on me babe  
>Put your ray gun to my head*<br>_

Now that… that was interesting. The ray gun etc. was clearly a Freudian styled request for oral sex, and Sherlock would have been inclined to march right into that bathroom and deliver on said request if he hadn't been distracted by the second phrase, the one about electric eyes, which he found to be unsettlingly familiar. After a moment's reflection, Sherlock realized where he'd heard it. John had used that very term the previous night in Sherlock's bed when they'd been face to face and skin to skin, and Sherlock, finding himself balls deep in intimacy, had become so overwhelmed that he'd shut his eyes to try and regain control. But John was having none of that. Between shallow pants he made his demand.

"I need them, Sherlock. Your eyes, love. Your electric eyes. On me. Now."

His trust in John was so complete that Sherlock, having lost faith in his own ability to cope, had complied immediately. From that moment until their mutual release some minutes later, John had held him in the comforting grip of his steady gaze. For his part Sherlock held on for dear life, afraid even to blink.

John's humming continued a while longer before the lyrics started up once again. Sherlock's pressed his entire length against the door so as not to miss a word.

_Make me, baby  
>Make me know you really care<br>Make me jump into the air*_

Now why would John choose to sing that? It just didn't make sense. Hadn't Sherlock, just last night, told John that he loved him, several times if he remembered correctly? Surely John didn't need to hear it again, in the sober light of day, when all their inhibitions were firmly intact. Sentimental words and gestures weren't really Sherlock's area and John knew this. Did he think that, after last night, Sherlock would change? As uncertainty crept into his mind, Sherlock began to feel a little queasy.

_I'm a space invader  
>I'll be a rockin' rollin' bitch for you*<em>

OK, now that was just too much. Yes, invading space he could do. In fact he could think of dozens of tempting locations from walls to couches to wardrobes, not to mention the back seat of Mike's car, where he would love to press up against dear, sweet John so that not an atom was left between them. But that other thing…Sherlock didn't know what a _rockin' rollin' bitch_ was, but he was betting that it required both a wardrobe he didn't own and a knowledge of pop culture he didn't possess. He was starting to hyperventilate, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of not being able to live up to these new and entirely unforeseen expectations, when the bathroom door swung open and John stepped out.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, John startled when he saw Sherlock. But he quickly recovered and, flashing an easy grin, said, "Well good morning, gorgeous."

Before Sherlock could reply, John pressed a quick kiss to his lips before hurrying up to his room yelling, "Sorry, but I gotta go. I'm late. Dinner, yeah?"

Sherlock, lost in thought, didn't reply. He was alone with his unanswered questions and knew he would remain so for the rest of the day. As the warm moist air from the bathroom began to cool around him, and the smell of John, soapy and inviting, began to fade, Sherlock became aware of a new feeling. It was the ache of separation, and he did not like it one bit.

That night after dinner they sat on the couch together, John seated and Sherlock stretched out with his head in John's lap. John, one hand on the remote, the other absently combing through Sherlock's hair, watched telly. Sherlock, exhausted from a day of worrying, paid no attention to any of the shows. Instead he focused on John, finding comfort in the parade of familiar expressions with their transparent display of emotion as they flashed across his lover's face. As it grew later, Sherlock closed his eyes and indulged his senses; John's smell, the rise and fall of his belly against Sherlock's head, the feel of John's gentle fingers carding through his hair. How could it be that this was the first time they'd sat together this way? It felt so good, so familiar, like they had always been like this.

Sherlock woke when he felt John's gentle shake. The telly was off and the room was dark. John asked whether he was coming to bed.

"Later," Sherlock said. He had a nagging sense of unfinished business, something he had to do or say, but exactly what he did not know.

John looked him over, his face frowning with concern. Then came the inevitable sigh. Sherlock, still reclining on the couch, closed his eyes, giving John permission to leave him. After a moment, Sherlock thought he heard John head for the stairs. But he'd been mistaken, for as he lay there, brooding in his invisible fortress of solitude, Sherlock felt John's two warm hands gently cup his face and his even warmer lips press his with a long, slow kiss.

"That's to make up for my half-arsed effort this morning. If you come up, I promise to do even better."

"Soon," Sherlock assured him, careful to remove all trace of anxiety from his voice.

With a yawn and a stretch, John retreated up the stairs.

The moment John was out of view, Sherlock stood up and began to pace. But after a while, he realized it was no use. Analysis and reason were getting him nowhere—his heart was still heavy. Instinctively Sherlock reached for his violin.

The sound of the violin was quiet and wouldn't have woken John up if he had, indeed, been asleep. But he hadn't. He'd been too worried about Sherlock. As much as his friend tried to hide it, John knew that the events of the night before had left Sherlock somewhat confused and upset. John didn't think it was regret, but rather that Sherlock was having trouble adjusting to inevitable flood of emotion that comes after risking intimacy for the first time. John had planned on them both getting a good night's sleep before beginning the herculean task of sorting out their feelings the following morning. It wasn't something John was particularly good at, but he was willing to take on the lion's share of the work for the sake of his endearingly inexperienced love. But since it was 12:30 AM and Sherlock still hadn't come to bed, John knew the job couldn't wait until morning. Throwing on his robe, he trudged sleepily downstairs. He'd brew some tea and then have at it with all the patience and skill his tired, love-sick self could muster.

John was on his way down, half way between floors, when he realized he'd never heard Sherlock play that particular tune. It was odd choice, extreme in its simplicity, a short verse followed by an equally short chorus; nothing like the dizzyingly complex concertos Sherlock usually favored. And then it struck John that he'd heard the song before, had heard it many times, in fact, over the years. John stood still, almost holding his breath, as he took a moment to listen closely to the wistful melody. And then it hit him, hard, and he felt his knees buckle as line after line, every last damned word of the song came rushing into his brain. Because it was then that John realized that Sherlock, brave, surprising, beautiful Sherlock had already got it sorted, all by himself, and now he was playing his heart out. As John turned himself around and headed back up to bed, he softly hummed along with the violin, the words, Sherlock's love and reassurance, running though his head and wrapping around his heart like a warm blanket.

_Here is my song for the asking  
>Ask me and I will play<br>So sweetly, I'll make you smile_

_This is my tune for the taking_  
><em>Take it, don't turn away<em>  
><em>I've been waiting all my life<em>

_Thinking it over, I've been sad_  
><em>Thinking it over, I'd be more than glad<em>  
><em>To change my ways for the asking<em>

_Ask me and I will play_  
><em>All the love that I hold inside**<em>

-fin-

_*__**David Bowie. Moonage Daydream**_

_****Simon & Garfunkel. Song For The Asking**_


End file.
